Seabbiay Manor
by MichaellaD
Summary: This is set in the early 19th century. Do I need to spell out the fact that it's AU? It will (very loosely) follow the plot of the actual Mentalist. Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist.
1. Prologue

Seabbiay Manor sat atop a gently rolling hill in the region of Kent. It had a grand, main entrance with ornate double doors flanked by marble columns in the Roman style. There was a north and a south wing, along with a west wing that was a trifle too large to balance well. Each wing had 30 windows and each window had 6 panes. Inside it was furnished in good taste, with paintings from bygone generations lining the walls and the very latest Recency furniture filling the rooms. It was, in short, neither a modest nor an ostentatious house; the perfect's gentleman's residence.

Oddly enough my story has very little to do with this house. If this story were a little different, if it were about the many odd things that occur in these old houses we pass without thinking every day, I would know exactly where to start. My story would then begin 250 years ago, when Lord Russham decided he required a country seat and ascertained that the stretch of countryside where the house presently sits was exactly suited to his purpose. My story would go on to relate the tale of his mother-in-law, who was the motivating factor behind the west wing (forever after known as Her Lady's Folly), a rather ridiculous addition, as I mentioned, which detracts from the natural beauty of the house. I would go on about Lord Bryant, four generations later, who slept without even a nightshirt and would take to wandering the halls at night when drunk.

But, alas, my story only refers to one of the many and varied owners of the manor, and consequently its inception is difficult to determine. Generally these personal narratives begin when the person in question is expelled from the womb, but that part of the story is rather monotonous. Really, babies are quite boring creatures. Skipping ahead a few years, we come to this man's marriage and his family's subsequent death. While these are important to the story, they do not quite fill the role of "beginning". Like the house, they are a facet of the man's background, a part of the setting, and while they could be their own story, they detract from the man I wish to talk about. It would possibly make quite a good prologue, but it is now too late for that. I have already written this excellent prologue, and I have no wish to change it.

So I find myself wondering again just where I am going with this. I suppose any good plot begins with a change, even if the change is too minute to be noticed at the time by the participants in the little drama. Therefore I shall begin my story with a very small change indeed. But don't be fooled by its seeming insignificance - everything that occurs afterwards would have been very different without this slight alteration. I speak, of course, of the hiring of a new kitchenmaid at Seabbiay Manor, on an early spring day in 1828...


	2. Season 1 part I

Grace edged her way nervously into the servants' hall. She stood unnoticed there for a few moments before a girl whose appearance was slightly older than hers', dressed in a maid's uniform, looked in and saw her.

"Is it Grace?" she asked quizzically. Her voice was quick yet pleasant.

"Yes. I am the new kitchenmaid." She tried to sound assured but it came out as a question.

"Good. Cook's expecting you. My name is Brenda Shettrick. I am the upper housemaid here."

While she was speaking, the girl was deftly removing Grace's shawl and hanging it on one of the sorry hooks along the wall, taking posession of Grace's meagre bag of possessions and dragging Grace up the narrow servants' stair by the arm.

Brenda kept up a steady stream of chatter, enumerating the respective postions and peccadilloes of the entire population of Seabbiay Manor, interspersed with little tidbits of the history of the house itself. _Lord Bryant...Mr. Ruskin...disgraced...Mr. Jane...inherited...Red John...Mrs. Lisbon...fine temper. _ Grace, who did not understand above one word in ten, tried valliantly to keep up with the information being thrown at her but finally had to admit defeat. She only hoped that she had not missed anything too important. Finally they came to a halt in front of a small wooden door, which Brenda threw open proudly.

"There you are. This is all yours." She put Grace's bundle on the straw mattress in the corner, which took up a third of the room. A small washbasin in the corner with a cracked mirror mounted on the wall above it completed the décor. Grace smiled.

"Thank you." She took a step inside. "Where shall I hang my dress at night?"

"There's a hook just there," said Brenda, pointing behind the door. "But you haven't time to slack, darling. You are needed in the kitchen. It is near five o'clock already and dinner will be served in just three hours."

Grace nodded, chastened and nervous. Together the girls hurried down the stairs. At the bottom Brenda pointed out the way and disappeared. Grace all but ran to the kitchen. Just outside the door, she stopped and attempted to calm her racing heart and shaking hands. Somewhat satisfied with the result, she stepped inside.

An efficient-looking woman in her sixties, grey hair almost covered by a white cap, was chopping carrots with blinding speed. Clearly at ease, she was not even looking at the eight-inch blade in her hand, instead concentrating on the woman in front of her. This second occupant of the kitchen also radiated confidence and an air of command, though she was some decades younger. The ring of keys clanging at her waist clearly indicated that she was the housekeeper. She was thin and angular, and her posture was perfectly straight. Not a single strand of her dark hair was out of place.

Grace had evidently interrupted an intimate conversation. Both women looked over at her. She tried not to visibly shrink.

"Grace, I presume," said the older woman.

"Yes, Mrs. Minelli," curtsied Grace awkwardly. She hated curtsies. Whether from lack of practise or coordination, they never came out in the polished way she knew they should.

"This is Mrs. Lisbon, the housekeeper of Seabbiay Manor," the cook introduced.

Grace curtsied again, almost tripping over her patched apron. Virginia Minelli apparently decided that they had spent quite enough time gossiping, for she becan issuing a series of rapid-fire orders. "There's a bin of potatoes in the pantry. Get to peeling a bucketfull. When you've finished you can punch down the bread over there, then get started on scrubbing those pots left over from tea. If that's not enough to keep you busy you can sweep the floor. I will call if I need anything else. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mrs. Minelli." Grace departed, relieved to find herself on familiar footing.

In the kitchen, conversation resumed, though on a slightly different tack. "That, I believe, was your new kitchenmaid, was it not?" asked Mrs. Lisbon.

"Yes. She's very raw, of course. Never worked at a 'big house' before."

"She looks like the kind to work herself to death. Do try not to overwork her, Virginia."

Virginia Minelli grinned. "I have never been cruel yet, Teresa."

Mrs. Lisbon smiled. "I know, dear. I must go now. Brenda is probably off gossiping again and I can see you are anxious to have your kitchen to yourself. Though the kitchen _is_ your domain, I do intend to check on Grace's progress in the future."

Mrs. Minelli waved the knife at her. "I would not expect anything else. And I look forward to your visits always."

Grace staggered in with a tin bucket full to overflowing with potatoes a few moments after the housekeeper left. Mrs. Minelli turned to her, exasperated. "Not _that_ many potatoes, Grace! Do you intend to feed an army?"

* * *

><p>Three hours later, Grace was standing once again outside the servants' hall, holding a tureen of soup and attempting to calm her nervousness. It was time to serve the upper servants' dinner. She reminded herself that there was nothing to fear on the side of the dinner itself. Being as it was her first day, Mrs. Minelli had very kindly aided her in its preparation, though Grace had privately vowed never to ask her to help again. She wanted to prove herself worthy of her position.<p>

Taking what seemed to her to be her twentieth deep breath of the day, she pushed open the door with her hip. There were only three people to be served. Despite Seabbiay Manor's size, Grace had noticed there were actually very few servants. Before her sat Mr. Choring, the butler; Mrs. Lisbon, the housekeeper; and Mr. Rigsby, the master's personal valet. (As to the rest, Mrs. Minelli served herself; the stable boy brought out the food for all the outdoor servants; and the under servants would eat in the servants' hall once Grace would have finished serving the three who now sat before her.)

Grace dished out the soup properly and quickly, remembering to pass the food from left to right, to step back one step after dishing the soup and wait just a moment to ensure that there were no problems before passing along to the next person, and to stand quietly in the corner after serving in case seconds were required.

She was rather surprised, when she reached Mr. Rigsby, that he thanked her. She had not been expecting any such notice and had no idea how to respond. She was grateful that, at least, she could not possibly be expected to to curtsy, given the half-empty tureen still in her hands. She settled for a soft "you are welcome."

Mrs. Lisbon's head came up sharply. "There is no need to speak whilst serving, Grace," she reprimanded the kitchenmaid.

Grace was mortified. Cheeks burning, she almost dropped the soup into Mr. Rigsby's lap. He seemed sorry for her, but was not willing to cross the housekeeper. Grace escaped the kitchen as soon as possible, attemping to collect her scattered wits.

She managed to serve the next course and the dessert without difficulty, though Mr. Rigsby thanked her each time in a quiet voice. She was still unsure as to the correct proceedure in such a case. She knew only what _not_ to do. Casting a scared glance over at Mrs. Lisbon, she bobbed her head awkwardly in the valet's direction. Nothing was said from across the table, and Grace decided with relief that that would be acceptable. As the upper servants finished eating, she stood quietly in the corner, hoping that she would be able to avoid any similarly foolish mistakes. All she desired was to have a normal, quiet servant's existence. She prized an ordered existence above all else. Her ambition reached no further.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Okay, I probably need to clear up a few things now. I will be trying to keep this at least somewhat historically accurate. So - Lisbon is called Mrs., not because she is married, but because she is the housekeeper. (Housekeepers were always Mrs., whether married or not.) **

**You can tell that Minelli is married and Lisbon is not because Minelli is wearing a cap. Only married women wore caps. ****Also, at that time, most cooks in the type of establishment I am describing were women. Hence Minelli's sex change.**

**Continuing my vein of attempted accuracy, Kimball Cho has become Kendall Choring. It's a blow to racial diversity, I know. Blame Victorian England. But don't worry, the personality will be the same. (Can't you just see Cho as a butler?) For the same reason, I did not mention Grace's last name. I was just too lazy to come up with an Anglicized version.**

**Now, having said all that, please be nice if you spot any inaccuracies. This was written for fun, not as a historical exercise.**

**Oh, and in case it wasn't obvious, "Seabbiay" is pronounced "CBI".**


	3. Season 1 part II

The next day, as she had vowed, Grace prepared the upper servant's meal herself. She was simultaneously terrified and proud of her accomplishment. Entering the room, she attempted to force her features into a well-bred servant's expressionless mask, drawing upon Mr. Choring's example (and hoping to please Mrs. Lisbon).

She had just completed the first serving when there occured a little disruption. The door flew open and a man in gentleman's dress swept into the room, at once filling it and making it seem sparse. Without a word he commanded attention; in simply standing, the illusion of greatness was achieved.

Grace's thoughts instantly flew to stories whispered under tattered blankets with her sisters on cold winter nights. For just a moment, her breath caught in her throat. She fought back an impulse to bow low, as the heathens do. Just as this man was, so she imagined a prince to be: his mere presence commanding everyone's respect and attention in an instant, his physiognomy as handsome as could be. The quiet scraping of the three chairs as the servants stood up became in her ears the thunder of a palacefull of guests rising and bowing to their king.

Then he turned and looked directly at her, truly saw her, and the moment vanished. True royalty would never take notice of its servants. The universe regained its proper order, and Grace could see now that this was merely an everyday nobleman, albeit a rather theatrical and imposing one. But now she found herself to be shrinking in horror, for this man, her master, Mr. Jane, was not only looking at her, he was coming her way, and he seemed bent upon _speaking_ to her!

"There is no need to be so terrified of me, Grace," he assured her, eyes twinkling. "I merely came to see the woman who has bewitched my valet."

Mr. Rigsby sputtered behind him. Mr. Jane remembered the other servants' presence. "Oh yes. You may sit down again. No need to stand on ceremony with me."

"But sir," protested Mr. Rigsby as they regained their seats, "I never said a word about Grace-"

Grace watched in awe as Mr. Jane shook his finger at his valet. "_Pre_-cisely! It is not like you not to mention a new, fetching female servant! As you can see, my curiosity was instantly aroused." He wheeled back to face the stunned kitchenmaid. "Now, my dear, when Rigsby asks permission to walk you to church on Sunday, you must grant us all the favour of saying yes."

Over Mr. Jane's back, Grace could see Mr. Rigsby start to choke. She looked wildly over to Mrs. Lisbon for aid, but that worthy woman was ignoring the entire scene, bringing a forkfull of chicken to her mouth with unruffled placidity. Evidently she was accustomed to such grave breaches of propriety on Mr. Jane's part.

That man continued. "Of course, your original intention would have been to deny him that privilege, but if you do I shall be forced to endure his moaning for weeks, and there is nothing worse in this world than a lugubrious valet."

Grace could see Mr. Choring give Mr. Rigsby a look full of meaning. It was the most expression she'd seen the butler display to date.

"You must tell me about yourself," Mr. Jane continued genially.

She dragged her gaze back to their master, all the while praying for some sort of escape. It was not so much the drift of the conversation, for she loved speaking of her family, but rather the fact that she had no inkling of the correct response. She had never heard of a master interesting himself in the slightest with any of his servants, let alone asking for their personal history.

"No matter. I can divine the drift myself." He peered at her closely. "Your father is a blacksmith" -Grace gasped soundlessly- "and you have at least seven siblings."

"Eight," corrected Grace in wonder, startled into speaking.

He nodded sagely. "Four sisters, if I'm not mistaken, and one brother going off to war. Navy - yes, the navy."

She stared at him, round-eyes. "Are you psychic, sir?" She had always wanted to meet one ever since her experience with Madame Yolanda at a gypsy's caravan.

He shook his head, smiling. "No indeed. Once upon a time I did feign such abilities, it is true, but there are no psychics, my dear. There is nothing beyond this life; ergo, no possible communication with the dead."

Grace looked at him in horror. "Sir, the Kingdom of God is a real place. But if we do not believe in it we shall burn in eternal damnation!"

Instead of being taken aback (either because of having seen the spiritual light or because of her effrontery), this eccentric gentleman seemed wonderfully amused. "So I shall, Grace, so I shall." He turned back to Rigsby. "Well, Rigsby, I must compliment you on your choice. This is indeed an excellent woman."

After nodding at her, he exited without another word, leaving Grace with a burning curiosity on his subject. She vowed to herself to ask Brenda as soon as they had a moment.

* * *

><p>That Sunday, Grace discovered that her mental discipline was severely lacking. What Mr. Jane had said about Mr. Rigsby, however inappropriate, was firmly upon the forefront of her mind.<p>

There was a fine bustle in the servants' hall as one and all donned their cloaks and hats in preparation of the walk to church. Mr. Rigsby never once looked her way (though she did notice his gaze sliding away from her on several occasions).

Then she and him were left standing at the head of the walk together, waiting for Mr. Choring to appear to lead the household. Grace could not help glancing over at Mr. Rigsby. Their eyes finally met. But she lost her nerve and dropped her eyes instantly to the pavement under her feet. She could almost feel his warmth beside her as she awaited with bated breath his next statement...

"I believe they're going," she heard him say stiffly.

She raised her head. Their party had advanced some thirty feet without her noticing. Mr. Rigsby was standing awkwardly between, as if he were a sort of bridge.

She coloured swiftly. "Of course."

The valet had already turned and had nearly rejoined the others. Blushing, she stretched her long legs so as not to be left behind.


	4. Season I part III

_1 silk ascot, red  
>2 cotton nightshirts, white<br>1 satin waistcoat, blue_

Mr. Choring cleared his throat. "Excuse me."

Mrs. Lisbon looked up from her laundry-list, a faint line of disapproval between her eyes. "Yes? What is it?"

"There is a party of three wishing to be shown about the manor," he informed her.

The frown settled more deeply into her face. "Must it be today? There is nothing I detest more than showing the house," she said with venom.

Mr. Choring stood by quietly.

Mrs. Lisbon folded up her book with unnecessary vehemence. "Is it not vastly early for a visit of this sort?"

"It is just after ten, which is an acceptable-"

Mrs. Lisbon sighed in exasperation, casting a glare in his direction. "I am well aware of the time, Mr. Choring."

The butler wisely stayed silent.

She strode purposefully out the door. "Very well. I must, and so it shall be." She cast a piercing glare in her fellow servant's direction. "You mustn't tell Mr. Jane he has visitors. It is fortunate that he has not yet arisen. The last time the house was shown he insisted upon showing it himself. He then told the company the entire history of Lord Bryant!"

Mr. Choring's lips twitched upwards in a rare smile. Both ignored the incongruity of a housekeeper giving orders to the butler.

"It was not amusing!" she retorted. "There were two ladies in the party!"

The butler resumed his impassive expression. "Of course." He ushered her into the entranceway.

Mrs. Lisbon was thereupon introduced to a Mr. McAllister and Mr. and Mrs. Boatwright. The housekeeper smiled pleasantly at her guests, and only one who knew her well would have seen that it was more strained than usual. The group described themselves as travelers from Hertfordshire journeying from Kent. They had taken an unexpected detour, and upon being informed of their proximity to Seabbiay Manor, Mrs. Boatwright had expressed a violent desire to see it.

"And here we are!" finished Mr. Boatwright cheerfully.

Mrs. Lisbon chose to ignore his vulgarity, at some personal cost. "If you will follow me, the portrait-room is this way." She led the way in silence, nodding at the Boatwrights' generally inane and misguided statements. She was rather more favourably impressed with Mr. McAllister. He was certainly as simple as his companions, but he at least had the good sense to remain generally silent.

* * *

><p>"Well, Rigsby, have you made any progress with the lovely Grace?" asked Mr. Jane, a wide smile upon his face.<p>

Mr. Rigsby, who was performing the final brushing-down of his master's coat and thus mercifully out of sight for the moment, shuffled his feet and did not reply. There was a knock on the door.

"Choring?" It was one of Mr. Jane's little games to always attempt to guess who had knocked. His servants all soon learnt not to anounce themselves at doors unless guests were present.

"Yes sir."

"Come in, my good man." Mr. Jane promptly ignored his butler, returning to the attack on his previous front.

"Have you told her how you feel?"

"No sir." His valet held up three cravats.

"The white satin. Well, why not?"

Mr. Rigsby mumbled something.

"Speak up!"

"I have indicated my interest in her, but she has not reciprocated." He spoke quickly, almost petulantly.

"How, exactly, have you 'indicated your interest'?" Mr. Jane smiled widely.

Mr. Choring spoke up, amused. "He goes down to the kitchen and eats all the leftover food while staring at her. Just what every woman desires."

Mr. Rigsby shot a glare in the butler's direction.

Mr. Jane clapped his valet on the back. "Women all want two things. They are unoriginal creatures, as we men well know. Give them these two things, they will all fall at your feet."

"What are the two things?" asked Mr. Rigsby hopefully.

"I will tell you for sixpence."

Mr. Rigsby frowned. "Why sixpence?"

"So the lesson will stick."

The valet sighed, but produced the desired coin.

"Love and affection."

"Pardon?"

"Love and affection."

"Sir-!" Mr. Rigsby resembled a baby that has been deprived of candy.

"Try it, you'll see. Now. Choring. What are you here for?"

"There are three visitors being shown about the Manor, sir."

Mr. Jane's face lit up.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Lisbon pointed to a set of ornate wooden doors. "Those doors lead to the West Wing. It was Lord Russham's mother-in-law who had it commissioned. She was a far-seeing lady. I'm sure you'll agree that it adds to the grandeur of the house."<p>

The three persons behind her murmured ecstatic approval, further cementing the housekeeper's scorn.

"Shall we tour it?" asked Mrs. Boatwright excitedly.

Mrs. Lisbon with difficulty did _not_ stare at her in surprise. "No, that part of the house is not available for touring. We will be going out-of-doors now, and the gardener may show you the grounds."

Mr. Jane greeted her at the door.

"Hello, hello!"

Mrs. Lisbon looked at him apprehensively. "Sir, may I speak to you a moment?" He approached her, grinning. "The gardener is fully capable-" she whispered.

Mr. Jane interrupted her. "Pish. You are worried that I will disgrace the Manor. But you mustn't - I swear not to hypnotize anyone this time," he assured her cheerfully.

Mrs. Lisbon watched helplessly as her unpredictable master led his guests out the door. She turned back to the house, vowing to check on them in a quarter-hour. But first she intended to find Mr. Choring and give him a piece of her mind...

* * *

><p>Grace stepped out the servants' door. For some reason or other the eggs had not been delivered to the kitchen and she had been sent to discover why.<p>

She was almost at the coop when she was waylaid by a gentleman. "What is your name?" he asked, smiling. Grace's skin began to prickle.

"Grace, sir."

"Grace. That's a lovely name. What are you doing here, by yourself?" He stepped closer.

Grace stepped back. "I am fetching eggs," she replied, trying to distance herself.

"I have been touring these lovely grounds, but I fear I have lost my way. Could you direct me to the greenhouse?"

Grace agreed unwillingly. He fell into step with her, glancing her way frequently.

"You really have beautiful hair. It is truly tragic that red hair is not appreciated in our day and age."

Grace, who was beginning to believe he meant her harm, cursed her red hair silently. She had long ago learned it led to only two looks from men: leers or glares. And this gentleman was beginning to leer.

She was trying to decide if facing Mrs. Minelli's wrath upon returning without eggs was preferable to spending another moment with this man when help arrived from a most unexpected source. Mr. Rigsby, who had in fact been looking for her (Mr. Jane's advice that morning having had more influence on him than he cared to admit), appeared from behind the trees that hid their position from the house. He took in the situation at a glance - a strange gentleman leaning in to his beloved Grace, Grace with a look of strain and possibly fear in her eyes - and ran towards them.

"Hey!"

* * *

><p>Mr. Jane was standing with Mr. and Mrs. Boatwright when Mrs. Lisbon found him again.<p>

"-a triangle inside a circle," he was saying triumphantly. Mrs. Boatwright was eyeing him with unrestrained wonder.

The housekeeper sidled up to Mr. Jane. "Excuse me, sir." She pulled him aside. "Where is Mr. McAllister?"

He looked around in vague confusion.

"Sir, he is your guest!" she hissed. "Am I required to explain that losing a guest is very poor manners?"

Mr. Jane smiled widely at her. One of his main pleasures in life was that of riling his housekeeper up until she forgot herself and a proper servant's decorum and became indignant with him. "Not to worry, I'm sure he shall show up."

She stalked off in search of that errant gentleman, not trusting herself to speak. Mr. Jane signalled the gardener to take his place and followed.

"What is your opinion of our esteemed guests?" he inquired conversationally.

"They are excellent people," she replied with icy control.

"Come now, there is no need to be so polite. They are fools, nothing more."

At that moment they caught sight of Mr. McAllister, engaged with Grace behind the greenhouse. As they watched, Mr. Rigsby ran towards them and thrust Grace protectively behind himself. They heard the valet tell Mr. McAllister to decamp, immediately.

"Oh _dear_," moaned Mrs. Lisbon, beginning to trot in their direction. Mr. Jane chuckled. She threw him a scathing glance. "So very amusing, is it not? Now I must ensure that Mr. McAllister does not insist that Mr. Rigsby leave the premises!"

"Ah, it will not come to that."

Mrs. Lisbon ignored him. Abandoning all pretense of dignity, she gathered his skirt and ran up to the two men. She inserted herself boldly between them. "Mr. Rigsby! Control yourself!" She laid her hand on his arm and pushed him none too gently. He backed up reluctantly. She turned to Mr. McAllister. "I'm terribly sorry, sir..."

Mr. Jane watched languidly as she apologized and gradually set everyone to rights. When Mr. McAllister was nearly mollified, Mr. Jane took his arm to lead him back to his friends. "Well, I hope you have enjoyed your tour. You must be sure to tell all your acquaintance, so they may come too!" Mr. McAllister stared at him, annoyed.

Mrs. Lisbon shook her head. She was smiling ruefully. Then she remembered the other guilty party. She turned to Mr. Rigsby, frowning. "What in heaven's name were you thinking?" They began walking. The sound of her scolding continued all the way to the house.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ****Now, I am well aware that the proper English spelling of "shown," at that time, was "shewn," but in the interests of being understood, I have ignored old spellings of this type.**

**I don't explain all the old customs that show up in my stories because I would end up with either a pedantic narration, or an A/N as long as the chapter. So if you have any questions just put them in your comments or a PM. (Ex: the reason why most men glared at Grace is because red hair was despised in England.)**

**And yeah, yeah, I totally stole a line from Pride and Prejudice. Well, tough. The copyright ran out years ago.**


	5. Season I part IV

Grace fastened her shawl about her neck. It was her afternoon off and she was on her way to meet with her sister. She planned to buy her a new pair of gloves with some of the savings from her wages. It would be a surprise. Grace knew how rare new gloves were in the Peltman household.

Mrs. Lisbon appeared in the entrance, her coat already draped over her shoulders. "Ah, Grace. Just heading down to the village, I understand?"

"Yes ma'am. I am meeting with my sister Helen at Hammond's."

"Excellent. I myself am on my way there as well, to post some parcels. Shall we walk down together?"

Grace was in a tricky situation. Her awe of the housekeeper bordered on outright fear at times, and the half-hour walk was bound to be terribly uncomfortable. On the other hand, there was no way to politely refuse, so Grace submitted with a heavy heart and as cheerful a countenance as she could manage.

"May I carry your packages?" she asked timidly as the stepped out-of-doors. It would look very odd indeed for an upper servant to carry her own packages while accompanied by an under servant.

"Thank you, Grace." Mrs Lisbon deposited them in her arms. Fortunately they were not overly heavy.

There were nearly halfway there when Mrs. Lisbon swung into a side path. "I hope you don't mind, Grace," she called. "I have just recalled that I intended to visit Mary Tanner briefly." She continued on without waiting for Grace's response.

Grace followed, wishing she had had the nerve to hand the packages back to the housekeeper and continue on by herself.

Mrs. Lisbon rapped on the door of a small, garbage-strewn house tucked behind an unsightly and untidy hedge. A slim, tired-looking girl about the age of fifteen peered out. Two younger boys clutched at her skirts. When she saw the housekeeper, a faded smile appeared on her face. She and Mrs. Lisbon exchanged greetings and pleasantries while Grace silently bemoaned the delay. Helen would be waiting for her at the shop, wondering what had occured to delay her older sister...

Then a loud, male voice brayed out of the darkness behind the girl. "Who ya talkin' to, girl?" The voice was slurred, bespeaking heavy drinking despite the early hour.

Grace noticed a look of apprehension creep into Mary's face. For the first time she saw that the girl's dirty hair, which slipped down to cover her forehead, poorly hid an old faded mark, a large purple bruise. All thoughts of Helen flew from Grace's mind.

"It is Mrs. Lisbon, Father."

"Alright, then. But don' take too long, now. You have a chicken that needs killin' afore suppertime."

"Yes, Father." She looked apologetically at Mrs. Lisbon, who nodded at her.

But Grace, now well used to the housekeeper's usual bearing, observed a certain stiffness. Remembering what Brenda had told her, Grace longed to offer Mrs. Lisbon some sort of compassion.

_"Her father was the old coachman. Been with the house his whole life. Then her mother died, and her father become a horrid drunk."_

_"No!" gasped Grace. The staid and respectable Mrs. Lisbon seemed aeons removed from scandal of any sort._

_"Oh yes. I was told he used to beat her and her brothers. Fortunately, (here Brenda crossed herself) he died in an accident, trying to drive the master home one night when he was three sheets to the wind. An absolute miracle Mr. Ruskin didn't die that day too."_

Mrs. Lisbon leaned in closer to Mary. Feeling as if she were intruding on a private conversation, Grace edged slightly down the walk, further away and out of hearing. The moment did not last long in any case. In mere seconds Mrs. Lisbon had said her goodbyes and the two servants were once again on their way to town.

Grace nerved herself to speak. "Is her mother-" She stopped, unsure as to how to conclude that particular sentence.

Mrs. Lisbon gave her a quick glance. "Died of consumption two years prior."

Grace, having seen human suffering face-to-face, was instantly fired with the desire to right all wrongs instantly. "Can you not help Mary? You must understand-"

This time Mrs. Lisbon interrupted her, staring stiffly straight ahead. "It is not proper to discuss personal matters with your superior."

"Yes, ma'am." Squashed, Grace kept her eyes on the path for the rest of the walk. It was with great relief that she was able to return the packages to Mrs. Lisbon's arms in Hammond's and find her sister.

At the end of an hour spent scrutinizing every single pair of gloves in the store, Helen was in ecstacies, having found an 'exquisite' pair; and Grace, though far from forgetting the incident from the walk, had cheered enough to be capable of viewing her part in the matter as generally irreproachable. It must be admitted that she had acted inappropriately in attempting to commiserate with a woman of whose family history Grace, strickly speaking, should have been in ignorance. Then to attempt to discuss that history with her! Still, Grace comforted herself with the thought that she had meant well, and had acted without malice.

On the other hand, it might be the course of wisdom, she decided, to stay clear of Mrs. Lisbon for the rest of today. And possibly tomorrow.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Lisbon entered the kitchen, which contained only Mrs. Minelli. None of the servants of the Manor would have recognized their proud housekeeper. Her walk, always sure, was now slow and tired. Her previously stiff posture was bent and cracked. She sat on a rickety wooden chair in the corner.<p>

"That chair is broken, dear," Mrs. Minelli told her.

Mrs. Lisbon smiled softly. "This chair has been broken for these last eight months. Never have I fallen from it, Virginia."

"Very true. I keep intending to ask the stableboy to mend it. But the thought always flies from my head whenever he is in the kitchen."

Mrs. Lisbon chuckled faintly. The cook eyed her narrowly. "I believe a prescription of hot cocoa is in order, Teresa." In five minutes the hot beverage was safely cradled in Mrs. Lisbon's delicate hands.

"I called upon Mary today," Mrs. Lisbon said finally.

"Mary Tanner?"

"Yes, indeed."

"And how are the Tanners?"

"Doing well. The boys are old enough now to help with the chores. Plucking chickens, weeding the corn." Mrs. Lisbon seemed to be struggling to find cheerful news.

"Wonderful."

"I offered her a position."

Mrs. Minelli's busy hands stilled for the first time. "Ah?"

"Yes. A young, ambitious girl like her may want more money at some future date. I informed her that, if she ever wished it, a place as housemaid here would always be hers."

The two women's eyes met with complete understanding. Mrs. Lisbon set down her empty mug.

"Why do women always have the hard road?" she asked with unexpected vehemence.

Mrs. Minelli's eyes softened, but she did not offer any platitudes, scorning false condolences. The two women looked at each other quietly for a moment, drawing shared strength. Then Mrs. Lisbon's lips quirked up in a strange grin.

"Still, we shall always have each other, is that not so?"

Mrs. Minelli smiled understandingly in return. "Indeed." She raised her eyebrow. "And since I value you so greatly, I will now ask you to please vacate my kitchen so that I may begin preparing the evening meal."

Mrs. Lisbon laughed and did as she was bid.


End file.
